If I had to sum up Day 4 in one word, it would be familiar—but not the kind of familiar that’s boring or repetitive. More like… comforting. Like stepping into a room and realizing everyone there speaks your language. The one you’ve been trying to speak your whole life, even when no one around you quite understood it.
We started the day by visiting the National Press Club—and for me, that alone was a dream. I’ve watched their panels, their press briefings, and their interviews for years. Growing up, those rooms on the screen looked like distant planets filled with voices I admired but never imagined I’d stand among. So walking into that space today—actually standing in the same building that I had only ever seen through a screen—was powerful. Not because of the walls or the history, but because of the possibility. It felt like crossing some invisible threshold: from aspiring to becoming.
But what really cracked something open in me today were the speakers.
The entire day centered around digital media and YouTube, and that alone had my heart racing in the best way. YouTube isn’t just a platform for me—it’s part of my origin story. I started my channel during the isolation of COVID, back when the world was quiet and heavy, and I needed somewhere to put all the feelings I couldn’t say out loud. Somewhere I could be myself and still feel connected. It became my outlet. My classroom. My stage. My launchpad.
I used it to build a community of people chasing dreams with shaky hands and big hearts. I didn’t have fancy gear. I didn’t have a budget. I didn’t even know if anyone would watch. But I had a voice. And I wanted to use it to remind people that they had one, too.
So when Carneka Boykin, the social media specialist for The Washington Post, stepped up to the podium and started talking about how she edits her videos and crafts content for TikTok and Instagram, my ears practically perked up like a puppy’s. I had no idea the Washington Post—a legacy media giant I’d always seen as polished, traditional, and very “formal”—had an entire department dedicated to social-first storytelling. It was refreshing. And a little mind-blowing.
She shared how long it took her to find the confidence to start. “Ten years,” she said. Ten years to just believe in herself enough to post, to speak, to create. That stuck with me. Because even though I started young, I still struggle with doubt all the time. There are days I ask myself, “Am I too young to be doing this? Do I even know enough? Who’s going to take me seriously?” And there she was—a woman I admired, doing incredible things at one of the most prestigious news organizations in the country—saying she had felt those exact same things.
That hit hard.
As she spoke, I couldn’t stop thinking: We’re not that different. We edit the same way. We found our passions in the same places. We used our voices even when they shook. And for the first time in a long time, I felt this strange, quiet pride rise up in me. Not loud, just a warm, steady feeling of Maybe I’m on the right track.
Later, I got the chance to talk to her one-on-one. I shared a little about my documentary—how I’ve been filming, editing, interviewing, writing, and producing it all by myself. No team. No funding. Just stories and drive. And when I told her that, she looked surprised. But in a good way. She smiled and told me to keep going. She told me that what I was doing mattered. And I don’t think she’ll ever know how much I needed to hear that.
Because sometimes when you’re working on something big and messy and deeply personal, you lose sight of what it even is anymore. You start comparing your behind-the-scenes to someone else’s highlight reel. But her words grounded me. Gave me clarity.
It wasn’t just a nice conversation—it was a moment. A moment where I didn’t feel like an outsider trying to break in. I felt like a storyteller among storytellers. Like maybe this thing I’ve been obsessing over since I was little—this craving to tell stories that matter—isn’t strange or niche. Maybe it’s what I’m meant to do.
And then came Chris Cillizza, another digital media creator who’s leaned into YouTube and built a career by adapting with the changing times. He brought humor, honesty, and a real understanding of what it means to create media in this weird, wonderful era we’re in. He talked about how the barriers are down now—how anyone can tell a story and be heard. That yes, it’s noisy, but it’s also democratized. Which means that people like me—people without the big cameras or expensive degrees—still have a shot.
He reminded me that authenticity always rises. That people respond to real stories, not perfect ones. And I needed that reminder. Because sometimes I get caught up in wanting everything to be polished and professional, but today reminded me that the best stories are the ones that make you feel.
Before WJMC, I knew I loved stories. I knew I wanted to use them to make a difference. But I had never stood in a room full of people who really got it—who knew the exact feeling of watching an interview come to life in editing, or who understood the thrill of uncovering a detail no one else noticed, or who believed in the power of storytelling not just as a tool, but as a responsibility.
Today, I found those people. People whose eyes lit up the same way mine do when we talk about journalism and media and the strange magic of words. People who reminded me that I’m not alone in this dream.
And something else happened today, too—something that snuck up on me.
I realized I’m not as scared anymore.
A few years ago, I would’ve been too intimidated to speak to professionals like Carneka or Chris. I would’ve convinced myself I wasn’t qualified or ready or “enough.” But today, I didn’t hide. I asked questions. I shared my story. I showed up.
And they didn’t just listen—they respected what I had to say. That’s something I’ll carry with me long after this conference ends.
Because today didn’t just inspire me. It reminded me why I do what I do. It reminded me that I’m not chasing some distant goal—I’m living it. And that maybe, just maybe, I’ve already begun to build the future I once thought I had to wait for.
Today was a turning point.
And I’m only getting started.
Starting Narratives 
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